Strangers In The Night
by destroyold
Summary: Spy!Johnlock. Sherlock and John meet in a mission, though they're not even working for the same companies. Adele and Frank Sinatra's fault, yep.
1. Chapter 1

Wow, okay. Here we go again, being a nice friend who writes stuff for another friend one more time. This one's for Nat, I told her I got sort of inspired the minute I started listening to ADELE's new song, "Skyfall" and voilà, here have some Spy!Johnlock. Thanks, as usual, to Julia, my beta and soulmate who's taken the time to help me on this new project!

...I must add something about this fic's rating, since it'll be T for a while... but then it will simply not. My friend requested smut to be on it so yep. Wish me luck, readers, and enjoy this first chapter! I hope you guys like it.

- Mel.

* * *

"Mr. Holmes, the boss needs you here in five minutes," the soft voice of a now well-known secretary sounded from the other side of the line, the prologue of his mission boring him deeply. God, why _him_?

Sherlock Holmes, 22 year old, 1.84 meters tall; his hair was coloured with the most obscure tonality of black you'd find in this side of the country and those captivating baby eyes, filled with a charming blue, as if they were infinitely haunted by the sea. Just a child, his brother used to say, but as the days had passed, since he entered the company –or the industry, as he liked to call it– there was no woman who could resist the intriguing look on his face, his serious behaviour, his graceful moves or his detailed profile. Nor his deep baritone voice, his source to charm women everywhere he went. Sadly, it wasn't his intention to provoke women in such way. He was just doing his job.

"Thank you, Anthea. I'm on my way. Tell him not to wait for me so he can start with his meal," he said in a brief response, buttoning his shirt and adjusting his striped tie to his collar.

As the youngest member of the fallen Holmes clan, after the success of his brother in this top secret company and the early encounter of his mother to a slow and painful death, he had decided to follow him in a way to get a grip on his life and start evolving intellectually. He always repeated to himself the same words, "_You were so young, Sherlock Holmes. You couldn't be more stupid. You're now more dependent than ever_," every single time he had to complete– as he called them– stupid and dull missions so he could live decently and do what he wanted the most.  
The idea has started with being a spy. Not to defend the country, but to gain the knowledge he needed to get out of this stage that happened to be truly indecent. For God's sake, he should've known better. Now he was being stalked by his older brother and he always knew where to find him. It didn't matter how important it was for Sherlock to spend some time on his own to advance on his so-called brain work; he'd call him any minute to tell him what he needed… and it looked like he always needed him! There were lots of other agents in there, but it had to be him. He was sure he'd never get to understand that – helping on a new mission. He was glad he never used hope as a way to see things from another angle, or he'd be completely screwed by now. Screwed and disappointed.  
He was sure he'd be more pleased with the idea if it wasn't for the fact that there were always two agents by his side on every mission. It was almost impossible to concentrate with the pair of idiots beside him, who seemed to focus only on each other's bums and follow each other's essences. Anderson, an idiot with some camel complex, judging by his face and his numb movements and his scientifically proved empty brain, and the so irritating Sally Donovan, someone who happened to be the worse of the two, constantly doubting Sherlock's abilities and deductions. He was patiently waiting for Mycroft to understand that he didn't need anyone anymore to complete whatever he had put on his little brother's agenda.

Sherlock entered the hall of the old building, walking with relaxed arms moving at his sides and an always analytical stare, looking from left to right, from the most obvious thing to the most insignificant –but always important– details in the room, like the number of loose floorboards beneath his feet or the level of symmetry in the room. No one before him had noticed the simple but useful facts of this secret company. His phone began to ring, the melody drowning in the silence of the isolated hallway.

"I need you to go to room 221, dear brother," he heard Mycroft say with that sticky tone of voiced he used to talk with when there was some big news coming for the Holmes brothers. It almost never happened, so Sherlock's pace accelerated and in a minute he was entering said room. There were two cups of tea on a little rounded table, two seats available. His brother appeared from nowhere, as he always did. He had managed to learn how from his old boss or something; he seriously was a pain in the ass. He was even worse than agents Anderson and Donovan together.

"What did you call me for, Mycroft? It must be important," Sherlock mused, half-closing his eyes in disbelief. "It must be a new mission… or perhaps I've got some new agents by my side?"

"Both. You're right, as usual, Sherlock," Mycroft said in response, one of his fakest smiles appearing at the corner of his lips once more. This was the smile Sherlock was used to receiving every time he knew he wouldn't have a second to protest. "You're going to Meiringen, Switzerland. I have the perfect mission for you."

"Did you change my actual companions for someone worse? Because I'm not buying this," Sherlock whispered as he sat on the chair next to the window. "I won't be going anywhere, if I have to go with Anderson and–"

"No. You're going alone. You're packing your things today and you'll start working tomorrow," Mycroft cut him off, rolling his eyes. "Now, if you'll excuse me, I need to inform you about the person we're going to investigate."

"It's a man, a middle-aged man. Gregory Lestrade, but his friends usually call him Greg or by his last name. I need you to get to know him, to be friends with him. I know how bad you are with friendships, but this is part of the job. He's not alone, though. He's got his personal friend and army doctor by his side, Dr. Watson, known as John by most of his friends," Mycroft said as he handed Sherlock a picture of the two people described. "You must know by now that you might need to take some precautions when joining them… forming a bond. You'll have to be careful, because it is rumoured that Dr. Watson," he put a finger on the short blonde man, showing Sherlock, "is one of the most loyal and outstanding agents of Lestrade's, so you must start working with him first. You may have some new data by tomorrow night. You're very clever, dear brother, and I need you to use your brain well. We've got an extremely dangerous situation between our companies, as Mr. Lestrade has been doing some illegal deals and we must put a stop to it now. The rights we own are an important part of the British secret agency."

"So that's it?" Sherlock asked, taking the last sip of his tea and leaving everything in the same place as he found it, stifling a laugh. "What kind of illegalities are we talking about, Mycroft?"

"Isn't that enough for you?" Mycroft asked, his lips forming into a thin, straight line. "So you're not confirming, then?"

"It's never enough, Mycroft. But I'm doing it." Sherlock grinned at the photograph in his hands before putting it in one of his jacket pockets and preparing himself to leave.

"It's a computer key code. Goodnight, Sherlock."

"Laters!"

All Mycroft was able to do in that moment was compare how entertained Sherlock looked to his reaction to the Irene Adler mission. He hadn't seen his brother so eager to do something for him since.

And Sherlock had to recognize this wasn't another ordinary mission. There was something about it that seemed interesting even before his involvement.


	2. Chapter 2

Whoa, here we go, twelve days and I finally published this second chapter. I hope you guys like it, thanks for following the story. Well, you must know by now that you're always allowed to suggest anything you want, correct things here, or simply put any kind of friendly note :) Thanks to Julia, always!

HAPPY LATE BIRTHDAY TO NAT, the one who loved the idea of spy!johnlock and the reason of why I'm writing this. I love you, dear.

- Mel.

* * *

All these classy hotels, he didn't understand it… not that he wasn't a person without class but this was way too much. It made agents like him look like James Bond or something. Frank Sinatra, expensive champagne and wine, everything looked like it was touched by King Midas. Also, there was absolutely nothing out of place.

"_Oh._" He stopped walking in the middle of the first floor, near an informative site to "make the visitors feel at home." "_I forgot. This is a five stars hotel, duh._"

"I'm sorry, sir, do you need any–?" he heard a low but strong voice coming from behind him. It was a man's, a friendly one. He turned around to ask for the room reserved by Mycroft Holmes when it hit him. And he deduced he wasn't the only one surprised here, since the other man kept staring at him with the strangest look you could ever give to someone, mouth wide open.

"Do you need anything?" Sherlock asked in response, grinning at his interlocutor with sarcasm. "A glass of water, anything? You seem upset, sir," he continued, whispering and putting his hand on the stranger's shoulder.

Sherlock knew how to hide his feelings, at least. This was a starter, indeed.

"I'll show you your room." The man shook his shoulder while Sherlock's hand fell to his side, keeping a decent distance from him and this new visitor. "You look a bit… lost."

God, this was _too_ easy! Why on earth would he hide himself under a worker from the hotel's staff, or simply _pretend_? Now he'd just have to get on with fake information knowing the other man wouldn't believe a word. He saw that coming as a possibility, anyway.

"Oh, yes, I am. I– uh, it'd be good if you helped me with this. Being this young and so ignorant doesn't help me at all." He had to socialize. God, no. "I'm just twenty and it's my first time in such an elegant hotel," he continued with a forced laugh, staring at his new companion, "so you must know how confused I am with all of this. I just came here for a uni project. Excuse me, would you tell me your name? It'd be such a nice thing to… know someone around here."

"I understand. Most university students come to… you know, do group work and yeah, just visit the place to take pictures as evidence of their hard work."

"Yes, I just came on my own, though. I also wanted to visit this place. My sister told me it was nice." Sherlock smiled, thinking of how his dearest brother Mycroft would react to his sudden gender swap.

They walked in silence towards the hallway where the elevators laid on the first floor, waiting for people to enter them. They looked at each other from the corner of their eyes, waiting for the elevator doors to open. Sherlock had to recognize this situation was awkward; sometimes he would look over his shoulder to surprise this man staring back at him.

"I'm sorry, I forgot. Which room did you reserve for your stay, sir?" Sherlock's acquaintance asked, shaking his head and blinking at the young and tall man standing in front of him.

"1109."

"Right."

The hotel staff member pressed the button for the eleventh floor. When they got to the place, Sherlock stopped himself to give some space to the other man to get out of the elevator first. It was an eternal dance where both of them observed each other as much as they were able to. They walked together through a long hallway, until the shorter man stopped in front of a white door with the number of Sherlock's room on it.

"Here it is, sir. It was a pleasure to help you." Sherlock saw him nod and leave, but he heard the man stop and turn to him, smiling at him. "Oh, by the way; the name's John. John Watson."

Then he left, simple as that. Sherlock had been waiting for this "John Watson" to tell him his name for about fifteen minutes and God, hadn't he been patient!

Sherlock opened the door with the electronic card service and closed it behind him, sitting in front of the door.  
He had five weeks to get this all done. The man who had accompanied him was definitely Dr. Watson. Oh, well, this would be easy.

His phone rang and Holmes checked it.

(**1**) New message.

He touched the screen and there were a couple of words coming from his older brother.

"_The game is on."_

"Are you really doing this, Mycroft?" Sherlock laughed, and stared at the big room in front of his eyes. It was nice. Very nice, indeed. He'd feel very much comfortable in here.  
A minute had passed, Sherlock still sitting on the floor, when the doorbell rang. The agent opened it and saw the helpful man in front of him once again.

Short, blonde, blue and bright eyes, big ears, lips slightly curled up forming a smile, short haircut, strong hands, uniform skin tone, apparently not someone who had been travelling that much.

"I'm sorry to disturb you, Mister Holmes." John smiled at him, staring down at Sherlock's luggage after realizing the man in front of him was discovering every single detail of him in one look. "I brought your things, I hope you're having a nice time here. If you have any problems, don't hesitate to contact us."

"Sherlock."

"Excuse me?" John seemed a little surprised, involuntarily taking one step closer towards his interlocutor.

"Just… call me Sherlock. No need to be formal with me in such ordinary circumstances." Sherlock smirked, his eyes flickered, John suddenly realizing this was a sort of unusual meeting. Clients wouldn't usually turn up being as friendly as Mr. Holmes; not when they expelled such an autocratic scent so… strongly.

John nodded and Sherlock stared at him some more before his phone started ringing and he had to say goodbye to his determined enemy. He saw him leave after the dull handshaking, the shorter man's thumb stroking the soft skin of Sherlock's palm and staring at him with a tentative look.  
Sherlock answered the phone call, going back to his usual self again. It was Mycroft.

"What do you need me to do?"

"You've read this sort of situation in more than ten books, dear brother. You must involve yourself with Doctor Watson and get a range of information. Understood?"

"Pleasure." Sherlock grinned and pressed the "_end call_" button. God, he hadn't had such an exciting meeting in years.


	3. Chapter 3, Part 1

First part for chapter three. Already working on part two, of course. I hope it's up as soon as possible! Thanks again to Julia and you all, of course, who've read and follow this story for future events. You make this possible.

- Mel.

* * *

January 6th. On days like this, he would go to the cemetery and sit for hours next to his parents' grave, to say hello and suffer with the feeling of their loss. The only time in the year he'd really show any kind of emotion. It didn't count, though; he just showed it in front of a piece of stone.

When he was a kid, he used to run for hours around the place, telling mum and dad how easy it was—and still is—to upset his older brother, how proud he felt of himself at school and how stupid and shallow the children were there. As time passed by, he became an adolescent. He wasn't an average one, though. He would sit in front of them and disconnect himself from any kind of thought for those two hours he always used to spend in front of his parent's tombstone, laying on the grass and, once he was done, he'd stand up, clean his pants with his big and strong hands and leave them there for one more year.  
What he didn't know was that he'd spend this year in a hotel, in another country, surrounded by danger and not in such a peaceful place as the cemetery. It would have to wait until he went back to London.

"Twenty-three years, dear brother," Mycroft reminded him, the same old bitterness filling his voice; a mix of irony and awkwardness. They never had a good communication, or a strong brotherhood.

"Did you visit them?"

"I'm busy; it's not going to be possible for me today, Sherlock. I'm sorry but it'll have to wait," He heard Mycroft sigh dramatically. Sherlock would always get mad at Mycroft; if there was one thing he would always be devoted to feel for, it was his parents. His mother, mostly.

"It's alright." He fought the need to shout in the middle of the phone call. He was, for once, right; it'd have to wait. "We will go after all of this is over. Dr. Watson or Mr. Lestrade has been completely out of my vision for these days. I haven't seen them anywhere."

"I see, you finally comprehend that they are dead and that they won't come back just because you stop going to their grave. I'm proud of you and your maturity, brother," he heard Mycroft say with a careless tone. "Is there any way you can meet Dr. Watson again, Sherlock?"

"There'll be a ballroom dance in the hotel tonight, a commemoration of the day this was built. I think I'll have the opportunity, Mycroft. What are the orders?"

"Persuade him, make him think you're part of his team," the oldest of the Holmes brothers said in a whisper, Sherlock noticing the dark charge in his voice. "Do anything to get considered as a new friend by him."

Sherlock hung the phone and checked his watch—3:30 PM. it was a good time to go outside and observe a bit more about this mysterious hotel.

He put on one of his skin-tight shirts and a pair of tight blue jeans, accompanied with a pair of shoes and the brilliant look of his curly hair now wetted by the water of the shower. After staring at himself in the mirror in front of the great soft bed he had slept in last night, he unbuttoned the first two buttons and adjusted his watch to his left wrist and left the room at a slow, relaxed pace.

He walked down the stairs and towards the centre of the first floor, next to the information site he had seen the day he had arrived to this hotel. He looked everywhere; doors, windows, elevators. He found nothing but a little girl who was smiling up at him as she waited for her mother to come and get her to their room.

"Do you have anything to eat, sir? My tummy hurts and mummy doesn't want me to eat until we get there," the girl in yellow dress and a short haircut whispered, her big eyes opening widely, staring at Holmes in a strange way, while she pointed up to the ceiling. "I thought you might have some cookies."

"Do you know you must never ever ask a stranger for food, girl?" Sherlock half-closed his eyes, sitting next to the girl on the ground. "There are all kinds of strangers. The ones that are helpful, those who honestly want you to feel comfortable, even when they don't know a thing about you. And the bad ones."

"The bad ones?" she replied, not even moving from where she was, "and you think you're a bad one, sir?"

"Oh, what do you think?" Sherlock smiled at her and revolved her hair with his right hand. She didn't seem to be scared of him or anything. Bright, young genius.

"You're funny." He stared at her for a moment, at her shiny eyes, her smile, and the pair of teeth in the front completely absent. She must have been three, four years old.

"Olive! Olive, what have I told you about talking to strangers, sweetheart?" A strong woman's voice sounded behind them, taking the little girl sitting next to him by the hand and pulling her up.

"Nothing, Mom," this "_Olive_" girl laughed as she waved goodbye to Sherlock while being pulled by her mother. Oh, this girl was really clever. And really funny, as she had described him before.

He stood up and went to the cafeteria, where he sat and observed every single person that walked in front of him. The cup of coffee had cooled off and he just spent his time there as he watched everyone pass by him.

He felt bad; bad for feeling something. He felt desolated. He was sure visiting mummy and father would fix all of this. Feeling empty for the dead after ten years of not having them? Please! It was ridiculous. If there was something Sherlock couldn't ever cope with about himself, it was these moments of nonsense on his mind. These moments of feeling, like everyone else did. He allowed himself to hate it, though he would never be distant from it.

* * *

The hour had come and everything had turned into a party down there, Sherlock realized. Loud music, wrongly connected speakers, microphone testing. What was that smell? Oh, food, of course. What else would it be?

He walked down the stairs trying not to crash with the waiters of the event. He got to the first floor and adjusted his bowtie, looking everywhere one more time.  
Then he felt something wet on his back. God, one of the waiters had crashed into him.

"I'm sorry, I almost fell," that voice, once again, behind him. It hadn't been so difficult, had it?

"Don't worry, John. It's always welcome to have an excuse to get slightly comfortable with this heat inside here," Sherlock answered, turning back to his target. "Here, let me help you. We can go to the bar and order two more martinis, if you want."

The party was already starting. Couples had been dancing a while ago, but now that the song was over and the owner of the hotel was giving thanks to the people who had been there tonight, all of them had went to have a drink and talk.

"So, John." Oh, he would say that name a million times without getting tired of it! "How's everything been with the organization of the hotel? Shouldn't you be helping?"

"I have the night for myself, finally. I'm not good when it comes to taking rest from work," the blonde man replied, unbuttoning his suit jacket and leaving it on the back of his chair. Oh, for a winter's night, it was really hot here.

When the old man finally stopped talking about unimportant data, like the age of the building or the celebrities that had come to the hotel, the band started playing a well-known song.  
_Oh, not Frank Sinatra again. I've been listening to it for ages!_

"Do you want to dance?" John suddenly asked, leaving his coat on the table as he stood up from his seat. "You might want to shake the tension away. You seem stressed out. Uni work, it must be hard."

"Yeah, obviously." Sherlock smiled and walked towards the improvised dance floor, John smiling to himself behind him.

"I didn't know you liked this kind of music," Sherlock said as they accommodated to dance, one hand on each other's waist, the other on their shoulders, keeping a decent distance from each other.

"It's Frank Sinatra, everyone loves him!" John beamed at him in response, moving with Sherlock in circles, according to the rhythm of the song.

They both perfectly knew _The Way You Look Tonight_ wasn't a good song to dance to so easily. They spent most of the dance staring into each other's eyes, or at the other couples when the urge to avoid each other's gazes was too strong to handle.  
Sometimes Sherlock would analyze _Doctor Watson_'s —as he liked to call him— face, searching for any kind of sign that would lead him to accurate deductions. During the whole song he'd find nothing else but a light tone of pink, just a shade of pink, creeping into John's cheeks as they let go of each other and got rid of their bowties.  
It seemed like the gun in his pocket would stay unused for the rest of the evening.


End file.
